


The Stranger

by RonnieWriting



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Din Djarin is a braavosi, Gen, adding more tags as I go, not set during the events of game of thrones, ser din djarin, set during the andal invasion, the mandalorian in the game of thrones universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-21 21:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30028131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieWriting/pseuds/RonnieWriting
Summary: A lone Braavosi crosses the Narrow Sea to Westeros for a new life though the pain of his past is only hidden behind a helmet. He lands in the early days of the Andal Invasion where religious militancy is at every corner and the struggle between new faith and old magic is just starting to turn to war.Along the way, the Braavosi encounters many people, Westerosi and Andal, and is forced to constantly question his allegiance and come to terms with his morality.It is only when he meets a small, strange child that things become clear and the true war is realised.Will it be too late by then?
Kudos: 8





	1. Heart's Home

The first sight of shore made Din think that the boats had been tossed around so hard on the Shivering Sea that they were coming back to the cliffs of the Braavosian Coastlands. Rows of cliff jutted up perpendicular to the shore in long snaking fingers that sunk deep in the sea with rocky tips. 

The Navigator insisted that this was the upper-East coast of Westeros.

Din had never been much further than the borders between Braavos and Andalos and scarce ever stepped onto a boat. He had a distinct feeling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of the foreign land that he doubted was only due to his sea sickness. 

It was said that the Andals had brought an entire fleet of ships with them for their conquest, full of acolytes and livestock, iron, steel, and the matter of gold- though it was their seven-pointed star they brought across the Narrow Sea in the greatest number.

The Andals were so recently enlightened by a new God, one of seven faces (depicted by a star with seven points), and whom by their holy light commanded the men of Andalos to spread the word of the new faith to Westeros; a corner of the world where winters lasted many years and forests fought with men for land. There, men worshiped a different God, one of magic and without so divine a name; that was, without name _at all._

It was deemed unholy by the standards of the Andals’ many-faced God, and was therefore an affront to them.

In Braavos, there was an entire isle of temples and places of worship for different Gods; Moonsingers, Faceless Men, Red Priests and Priestesses that worshiped a Lord of Light, and now the faith of the Andals with their seven-sided Sept. Din had never taken well to any of them.

Din was an outsider among the Andals- in truth, he was an outsider among most.

On his voyage across the Narrow Sea to the Fingers of Westeros (the landing place of the first Andal fleet), Din found that many on the ship were also Braavosi: stragglers, orphans, sellswords, travelling whores, and some were even of the faith of the Seven; he was unwilling to associate himself with most of them.

Din was a straggler and an orphan but he had found the determination to resist the labeling of either. He also found the armor.

Seldom ever had Din been keen to remove his helmet. He wore it everyday through rain and shine and was loath to take it off even for sleep or to have it cleaned. 

Therefore, when a young Braavosi girl had approached him and wondered aloud why he would not remove his helmet, he gave her the excuse that “The clasps on my gorget are fused shut with rust.”

In fact, such as he wished were true. For so many years he had worn a helmet and the assumptions it came with; It was better than the reception that his unhelmed face brought out in even the kindest of people. 

Maybe, Din thought, he could get some new armor in Westeros. The First Men of Westeros only hammered bronze, but if he were to come into a somehow faithless service of the Andals, then maybe he could earn himself an iron suit. And depending on how expensive his skills to be- perhaps he could even prove to be worth Valyrian steel.

Din had only heard stories of the kind of armor that Valyrian steel created; much stronger, lighter, and sharper than any other kind of metal known to man- so dense that no sword could even scratch its rippling black surface. And yet, it was said that it was almost weightless, like wearing silk cloth. As such, Valyrian armor was few and far and cost as much as a kingdom. The dragonlords of Valyria mined and forged their famous metal into swords and armor but were unlikely to ever trade outside of their country.

Still, Din hoped.

As Din had been fretting over what the Andal reception might be, the same young girl that had asked him about his helmet had come again to stand by him. She was looking up at the steep cliffs with wonder. 

After a moment of silence, she asked him, “Are you a warrior?” 

He looked down to her. People generally seemed to seek his eyes in the thin slit of his visor as they talked to him but she seemed content just to talk into the air, her eyes never leaving the coast of Westeros. “No.” Din said.

“But you carry a sword.” She pointed to the blade at his belt. It was the only other steel he had worn everyday, but he made a point to keep it in better condition than his helm.

He took in a deep breath. The heavy salt of the air mixed with the metallic tinge of his helm and it was like being surrounded by the scent of blood. “Anyone can carry a sword.” 

… 

The ship ported in Heart’s Home, a castle hold in the Fingers. It had a small village but to Din and many of the travellers aboard the ship, it would only serve as a temporary stead.

Din waited on the docks patiently for the livestock to be unloaded.

Over the course of his entire life, Din never put much faith in people- of that, he made a rule. They’d come and go with anger or disappointment once they learnt who he was underneath his mysterious helmet and in one case it led to him staring down the pointy end of Red Priest’s knife. It all only served to make him check his helmet straps more often and sleep with a dagger in his fist. 

Though, every rule had an exception. And to Din, that was R’hazor. 

R’hazor was an old war horse Din bought while in Andalos as a young man. The merchant who sold him assured Din that the horse was Dothraki-bred, raised for battle; an exceptional stallion that was incomparable to any other horse, wild or stable raised. Of that, Din was weary. 

Dothraki horses were as sacred as the children of their hoards, and were not only bred for riding and war but for sacrifice as well. If R’hazor was indeed what the merchant claimed, the circumstances that led to his acquisition was suspicious to say the least. But Din didn’t ask questions. 

They had been ship bound for quite some time so when R’hazor saw Din, the old horse pulled himself free from the grip of the horsemaster and came over to him. 

R’hazor was grey in colour with a long wavy mane. Din could not afford much in the way of riding equipment but he preferred travelling light anyways; the woven blanket and sleeping roll Din had slung over his strong back was enough for the Braavosi. 

The light of day was beginning to dwindle so with R’hazor by the reins, Din set out in search of an Inn.

Eventually, he came to an Inn called Corvid’s Cast just on the outskirts of Heart’s Home. He handed R’hazor to the young groom who came out to meet him as they approached and entered the stead without a word.

The Innkeep was a stout woman with fingertips that were stained black. She welcomed him well and showed him a table in the back of the stead. 

Din sat, taking note of how many people were around him. She had directed him to a corner, away from who he assumed were locals. “Do you serve mead, good woman?” he asked her.

The Innkeep nodded but then she stopped. She studied him for a moment, frowning as she searched the gap of his visor for a glimpse of his eyes. “Aye… You don’t sound like an Andal.” 

The Andals were known to be tall, fair haired warriors. Din had the height but of course, under his helm he remained an enigma, a stranger. “I come from Braavos.” He told her.

She looked to only half believe him. “Aye we’ve ‘ad a number of your kind through ‘ere. Though I can’t say I’ve ever seen one of you with such a clunking bucket on his ‘ead.”

Din shrugged, thinking up another excuse, “I travelled a lot in Essos. It keeps the sand out of my eyes.” 

“There are no sands in the Fingers I’m afraid- You’d be wanting to ‘ead South to Dorne. I can find you a map if you’ve the coin.”

Din nodded, taking out his coin purse from where he hid it beneath his tunic. He swiftly set two silver coins in her hand. “For the map, the mead, and oats for my horse.” 

The Innkeep stared at the coins. “Should you be needing board?”

“No.” said Din.

With that, she scurried away. Din tucked his purse back beneath his tunic, careful to avoid the notice of any of the local men. Thankfully, none of them seemed to be bothered by his shadowy presence for they were occupied with a story that one of them was busy recounting.

“... I was told that King Robar has put forth an offer of truce in order to rally against the Andals.”

At the mention of the Andals there was hissing and cussing. Din couldn’t hear much more of their discussion as when the Innkeep came back through, she shushed them sternly.

She brought him a tankard of mead and a piece of folded parchment. Din stopped her with a tug to her sleeve before she could leave again. He asked her in a low, quiet voice, “Are there many Andal men _between_ here and the Eyrie?”

She looked worriedly over at the table of men and then back to Din. “Why do you ask?”

“I want to know how much trouble I might find on the road.”

She still must’ve questioned his Andal allegiance because she chose her words carefully, “The mountains are hardly a safe place for anyone, full of shadowcats and the like.” With that, she left him again, but not before stopping by the group at the other table.

The locals were starting to take more interest in him and though the Innkeep was clearly insisting they keep to their own table, the men across the room were starting to cast him _very_ unfriendly looks.

Din was not about to take any chances. He lifted the visor on his helm just enough to swallow down as much mead as he could, and then he left. 

Just as he was checking R’hazor’s gear and getting ready to leave Heart’s Home behind, he heard the approach of footsteps behind him.

Din spun around and drew his sword. It sang with the motion it made through the air. It had been tucked into his belt for so long, crying for the chance to spill blood. The person who stood before him wasn’t any of the men from the table he had been watched by, rather a much older, smaller man. He had fine white hair tucked under a leather cap and a prominent jaw. Din was not about to take any sort of chance 

When the old man did not flinch at the sword raised at him, Din took a step back towards R’hazor, “I’ll just be on my way.” He stated. “You want no qualms with me.”

“Is it true what they say about the Braavosi?” He asked, still not disturbed by the threat that Din posed.

Din hesitated. “Is what true?”

“You are all great swordsmen. What do you call yourselves again- _Waterwarriors_?”

“Water _dancers_.” Din corrected. “Very few Braavosi are Waterdancers, you have me mistaken.” Tired, and sure this old man was not about to call upon the men in the inn, Din sheathed his sword and made to mount R’hazor.

“ _You_ are the one mistaken, Braavosi.” The old man pressed. “Great Waterdancer or not- you’ll have no chance crossing through the mountains without me.”

Din pulled himself up to sit on R’hazor, grabbing his reins. He had not realised how much he missed sitting atop his old warhorse- their bond was undeniably mutual. “I don’t need you, I have a map.” Din told him.

“The Others take your map. If a shadowcat doesn’t snatch you and your mount up, it’ll be those men in the Inn that will sweep you from the mountain trail- that is even if you _find_ it.” Din made to protest again but the old man was insistent. “You need me, Braavosi… more than you know.”

He considered the old man’s offer for a full moment. To Din, Westeros was another world and each Westerosi proved to be of mystery and conflicting alignment. He had no idea how big a shadowcat was but he was certain that he would not hold a defense against the Inn men. 

While Din had been thinking, the old man had retrieved his own mount from the stable. A pair of grey mules that were linked by a single rope. The latter one was piled high with gear- bags and pouches and the like. 

Din was quick to assert himself firmly, “I haven’t consented to letting you join my company, old man.”

The man mounted himself as swiftly as Din had. “It is you that is mistaken again, Braavosi. _You_ are the one that needs _me_. I have spoken.” 


	2. Mountains of the Moon

Din watched his first sunrise in Westeros on the back of the old man’s second mule. The sky was hazy with the early light as the clouds hung low over the mountain valleys; but the air was clear and crisp, much different to what Din was used to in Braavos. 

The old man had insisted that Din not continue on the mountain path on the back of his warhorse, telling him that “one wrong finger on the reins and it's over the edge with the both of you.” Din might’ve protested, but strangely, he was accumulating an edge of respect for the old man. Whatever advantage the man considered personal was lost on the Braavosi, though- selflessness came at a high cost.

Whatever the reason, Din found his own interest in going along with the will of the old man. Together, they loaded their combined cargo onto R’hazor. It was more than the old warhorse was used to carrying but he seemed to take it well with the slow-paced stride they began on the winding mountain road.

Without looking back from the head of the line, the old man spoke to him through the wind. It was more than Din expected from such an aged voice. “It is not in my way to ask questions to a stranger's own business,” He said, “but you must know that I have no peaceful understanding with Andal men.”

“The Andals don’t keep peace with many other than their own.” Din replied.

The old man huffed at that. “And yet a Braavosi man wants council with them. Or is it perhaps you have a few of their names on a list hidden under that horrible helm?

I do not know your peoples’ strife with them- if the Andals murdered masses of Braavosi or if they are in a great debt to you- that does not matter to me. But I will not cease to stress that their ears are merely ditches in the dirt. If it is honor and a good sword in your arm you seek, you’re better finding it the farther you get from the Eyrie.”

Din considered the man’s words for a moment. It was true that he came to Westeros mainly in seek of service. He didn’t expect to witness such opposing loyalties after just coming off the ship. “Then why do you help me?”

“I help every stranger that ports in Heart’s Home through the mountains.” He said like it was obvious. “Most of them have no doubt fallen victim to the Andals’ sweet summer song of righteous war and now wear their seven-pointed star into battle against the men who have lorded over this land for generations. But to every one of them, I have told them this very thing- to which I tell you at this moment… I hold tight to the hope that  _ one of you _ will listen.”

“You mention a place farther than the Eyrie with higher honor?” Din asked.

“Yes,” the old man said. “Any place. If you don’t mind the snow, head to Winterfell in the far North. The Starks there are proud of their honor-filled wolfsblood, no doubt a man of honest strength could earn stead there. Or, if it is sand you prefer, take the road South to Dorne. The Dornish hold strange customs but theirs is a great unrelenting will- they’ve never bent to an enemy.”

The old man let the conversation die there, his voice hanging on the wind. His words played over and over in Din’s thoughts for the rest of the day’s ride.

… 

The two men and the three mounts found a place to lay camp for the night in a high valley seated between two mountains. The old man had told him that from this point they’d “see a shadowcat coming- which only lasts a moment- before the beast is upon you, tooth and claw first.” It was more than enough reason for Din.

From the bags the man unloaded from R’hazor’s back, he produced a small pot of dried salt beef, and another filled with stringy seaweed that was preserved in a murky sort of vinegar. 

“All the Braavosi I’ve met have mouths.” The old man said when Din made to refuse the food. “You’ll make no good meal for the shadowcats if you don’t eat.” He jested, insisting the bowl filled with the beef and seaweed into Din’s hands. “I have spoken.”

“Thankyou.” Din said. But he still made no move to move his visor.

The old man wasn’t offended, but his growing curiosity was rising to a level that Din could sense across the small fire they had made between them.

“You said it is not in your way to question a stranger’s business.” Din said firmly. 

“But you understand that it may never earn you a place above suspicion no matter where you go.  _ I’m _ not so interested if you are nothing but a shadow under your helm, but most others will be much more  _ assertive _ in solving their doubt.” 

Din was aware. In fact, he had spent many hours on the ship over to Westeros wondering on the many ways he might be met by sword once someone of high status and higher pride found agitation in the fact that he was strongly unwilling to remove his helm. None of them seemed to be situations so easily avoided.

“I never intend to stay in one place for that reason.” Din told him. “A wandering stranger remains a stranger twice as long.”

“I see.” Said the old man.

In the lull, Din found some security and turned so that his back was to the fire. He unlatched the clasps on his gorget and carefully lifted the helm from his head. It was the first time in a number of months that he had taken it off fully and the sensation of fresh air rushing to surround his head was never lost. Before anything else, Din took in a single deep breath; letting it fill his chest and release through his mouth without the barrier of metal so close to his face. Air almost felt foreign to Din, like the smell of an exotic spice that would capture entire flocks of people once unloaded from Lys in the trading ports of Braavos. With his back to the fire, he could feel the heat as it dried the hidden curls of his hair from as they had been dampened- and remained dampened- on the voyage.

In the undisturbed air, he was reminded of his condition. The ugly truth of his face that demanded the constant shield of his helmet. Perhaps on his journeys through Westeros he could find some sort of healer or magician that could send away his permanent mask with the aid of herbs or fire or knife- he’d even accept the means of blood magic to cure him.

Once he heard no movement around him- the old man had not moved to catch a glimpse of his face, and R’hazor had made no indication that anyone else was around them for miles- Din picked up the bowl in his hands and started to eat.

“Do you have a name, Braavosi?” the old man asked behind him.

Din shook his head between bites of the hard salt beef.

“Not even a family name?”

Din swallowed. “I don’t have a family.”

The old man was stubborn, “All men have a family.” 

“Even if I had, it doesn’t matter.” Din told him as he finished off the few strands of seaweed. “Whoever I was is now only dust in the wind.” Then, with one last breath of clear, unfiltered air, he put his helmet back on.

Din was lying on all accounts. He had a name, first and last, and a family too;  _ and _ he remembered them. His early years of childhood were like any other and he had carried the untarnished memory of them to this day. 

Din remembered his mother; a hard working Braavosi woman with a kind face and long curly hair. She worked every day in the city kitchens but found no burden in singing to him every night- a song in a made up language about a hero lost to time she named  _ Mand’ah Lorien _ .

The memories of his father were no less strong; a man he imagined he’d now very closely resemble that came from the small southern isle, Lys. Din remembered often seeing his father on the docks and in the market, transporting trade goods by the cart with only the strength of his own two arms. In those days, Din would be swept up with the crowd in wonder of all the smells with no helmet to insult and shut him away from any new aroma or taste.

He would not let himself forget them. Sadly, it would be more probable that  _ they _ would have forgotten  _ him _ . 

After illness struck Din in his late boyhood, his parents became strangers of their own choice- they could not bear to look upon his face as it changed. They cast him out in fear and disgust at what he was quickly becoming. 

He was not dying- not in the way that a plague kills,  _ quickly _ \- for this was an illness of utter cruelty, of slow paced disfigurement that starts outside and ends inside. Din was a child still, with soft hands and round cheeks but at that point they had already considered him fit for a shroud.

The Braavosi kept many gods among them but his parents took to none; they deemed his sickness beyond the repair of any higher order or magicians’ tricks. 

He was cast out and the door was shut behind him.

“A man has many names, I say.” The old man said as Din turned back to face him. His eyes were burning a little but not from his proximity to the fire. The old man took the bowl back from his outstretched hand, “This man’s name is Kuiil.”

“Kuiil.” Din repeated.

The old man- Kuiil- looked him over again, this time without lingering in fixation on his rusted helmet. “A man is a stranger of his own making, but all men have at least  _ one _ name. You may choose one right now- true or false, I shall never know.”

Din thought of his mother’s hero and said, “Mand’o.”

Kuiil repeated, “ _ Mand’o _ .” though it sounded different, interpreted to suit a Westerosi tongue. “A man has spoken… A stranger he is no more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay second chapter is up!! I'm hoping that I can keep uploading chapters every week because I'm finding it pretty alright to write and its coming along really well behind the scenes!!!   
> I wanted Din's 'name' drop as Mando to come in relatively early in the story so that's the main name he'll give to other characters but the whole "I'm Din" will come in later down the line, as will lil Grogu!!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and thank you for reading!! xx

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot to mention-sorry- that I might include some more obscure game of thrones stuff here in the notes so that mandalorian fans aren't left in the dark!!  
> ok so for instance when the old man says "The Others take your map" its kind of like a westerosi way of saying "to hell with..." because at this point in the timeline, the others (this ice/undead demon army) have come and been sent beyond the wall- which is also built!  
> I don't know enough about the details of this era, which is just after the age of heroes, but I do know its after Bran the builder and long before the building of Harrenhal even began.
> 
> Ok ramble aside, that's what that means- If I keep using these lil obscure nods I'll try to explain them here in the notes if thats ok! Also feel free to debate any of this lore with me and message me for any other information, I'm only too happy to talk to people about this crossover/au :)


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